


Burn Out The Night

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coming In Pants, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Impala Feels, M/M, Underage Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Underage Drinking, Underage Kissing, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1372609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burn out the day / Burn out the night /  I can't see no reason to put up a fight</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn Out The Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackrabbit42](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=blackrabbit42).



> A very late gift for the very lovely Blackrabbit42. Hope you like it darling!
> 
> Sam is a teenager, ages unspecified. Vague mention of Dean/OFCs.
> 
> Title and description from Burning For You by Blue Oyster Cult.

“Where do you think they go?”

 

Flames dance over Sam's face as Dean shrugs.

 

“Not a clue.”

 

Dean looks down at the hip-deep grave and claps his hands together. It's the kind of night that's just right for a fire, the air just cool enough to make him glad for his jacket and the flickering warmth of the former Mrs. O'Hanlon.

 

“Maybe they go to _heaven_.” Dean can't keep the bite out of his voice, and he can practically hear Sam roll his eyes.

 

“Save it, Dean.” Sam scuffs his foot to the side, kicking up a spray of overturned dirt. The warm, wet smell of it drifts to Dean's nose and lingers in the back of his throat.

 

“Well, wherever the fuck she is, she's not chasing after wayward girls any more.” Dean clears his throat and wrinkles his nose. Any ghost that went after women of loose moral fiber deserved to get the extra-crispy in Dean's book.

 

Sam sighs and tilts his head to the side, heavy with the silent contemplation that's settled over him like a mantle ever since puberty sprung him out of the gawky phase and into … well, into a teenager, certainly. Dean runs his tongue along the back of his teeth and looks up at the sky.

 

This documentary on History channel three motels ago said that the Ancient Egyptians weren't expert astronomers or anything. They just didn't have light pollution and they could all see the stars perfectly at night. They look clear enough to Dean. That room had gotten good cable reception but the heat had been on the fritz. He and Sam had shared a bed.

 

“I think this calls for a drink.”

 

Sam looks over at him, his head still at that weird, ducked angle, like Sam is still figuring out how to stand up straight and keep all his bones in order. Or maybe that big-ass brain is just too heavy.

 

“Would Dad..?” Sam's eyebrows wrinkle up into a question, shoulders hunched forward like Dad will pop up behind him just at the mention.

 

“Dad ain't here, is he?” Dean grins, and it's easy, easy to take a few steps back and rest his ass against the body-warm heat of the car. Of _his_ car.

 

“'Kay.” Sam shrugs, one shoulder rising up bony from the ill-fitting jacket Dean had “borrowed” from a well-meaning trucker five towns ago. Sam's clothes seem to defy the laws of physics these days, being simultaneously too large and way too small for him. He flashes strips of skin every time he moves, a downy sweep of his lower back, a flash of collarbone set askew by an old t-shirt. Sam doesn't have any freckles on him.

 

Dean fishes his flask from his jacket, running his finger over the mended seam of his inside pocket. Sam had fixed it. For all his twitchy boredom and sullen Dad-baiting, Sam could turn a neat stitch and Dean knows he secretly enjoys it. He'd patched a gouge in Dean's side three weeks ago, and Dean knows the scar will practically disappear next to the ones he'd done himself. Sam checks it every night just to make sure.

 

The car sinks under Sam's weight as he joins Dean, hitching his foot on the fender and letting his bangs slope towards Dean. Sam kept his hair long just to piss off Dad, Dean's sure. Dean doesn't fight that hard to back Dad up.

 

“First solo salt and burn, kiddo.” Dean unscrews the flask and salutes his brother. “Cheers.”

 

He knocks back a generous shot, swilling it over his teeth until it burns out the smell of impromptu graves and lighter fluid. It snakes down his chest and settles in his gut.

 

“I had some help.” Sam smiles, sheepish as he takes the flask from Dean. Their fingers brush together and Dean focuses on the whiskey-warmth spreading out over his skin.

 

“Hey, I wouldn't have had shit to dig up if you hadn't found that crazy old bat's diary.” Dean can still see the spider scrawl of the headmistress's handwriting, thin and spiteful. _Women of loose moral fiber_. _Jezebels_ and _Whores of Babylon._

 

“You're just glad she can't kill off anymore of the town skanks.” Sam wrinkles his nose as he wraps his lips around the neck. He hides his grimace pretty well but Dean can still see the angle of distaste as he licks his lips. Sam licks his lips a lot.

 

“Gimme that.”

 

Dean is of loose moral fiber. It's threadbare, stretching across his skin so taut he can feel the stitches. He snatches the flask back and takes another drink.

 

He'd slept with a bartender two towns back. By now she's probably noticed that her bottle of Wild Turkey has turned a whiter shade of pale, but at least Dean's gentleman enough to refill it with water so her boss won't notice. One of the best ways to get laid and pocket an easy stack of tips is to sweet-talk the female bartender at a gay bar, that's just basic hustling logic.

 

“Can't have some crazy old bitch taking a tire iron to the town bicycle, Sammy.” Dean's face is so rarely his own that it takes him a minute to recognize the expression he's making. It's the same one that talks bartenders into closing early and bending over the nearest available surface. “How'm I supposed to get a ride?”

 

Sometimes, Dean looks at Sam and it's like looking in one of those shitty old mirrors with the silver clouding it over. Sam, who always had the most easy to read expressions, who could always tell Dean what he needed with a look or a tug on his wrist. Some days Dean doesn't know what Sam's thinking. Some days he isn't sure he wants to know.

 

Sam swallows, his lips parting and his eyes wide under that stupid long hair. Dean wants to see inside him now, wants to know everything that Sam's imagining. Wants to know how he looks from the Sam's-eye-view of Dean's sex life.

 

“It's better when they're easy.”

 

Sam's sitting close to him, too close with all the inches to spare on either side of the hood. They're always too close. Dean catches himself sometimes, parts touching that aren't supposed to, even if it's an accident. Even if they're both almost asleep or almost out of hot water.

 

“When they just want it, you know...” Dean trails off. Sam wouldn't know, wouldn't know anything except for Dean's lurid stories and it makes Dean feel mean for no reason.

 

Dean is made of loose stuff, the sort of stuff that told his little brother about fucking and come and rugburn even if it made him squirm in his seat and blush red. Sam looks pretty when he's embarrassed. Dean's fucked girls who weren't half as pretty.

 

Dean's face is still arranged all wrong, like he's chatting up something pretty and not knee-to-knee with Sam. It's so easy, the way his eyebrows arch up and he licks his lips before he rolls them together. Dean's not an idiot, he knows where his bread's buttered and it's right between his lips. Sam's staring at them.

 

The grave fire flares up and crackles again, with the pop and hiss of a filling or a piece of jewelry or some fucking thing, something that makes the light blaze bright and catch on Sam's face. The shadows make it look like he's leaning in closer.

 

The air is cool but Dean's feeling nothing but warm, the kind that tickles its fingers down the nape of his neck and makes him want to tug at a phantom tie, to touch himself like that would somehow soothe it. He presses the pads of his fingers against the flask, the metal offering little relief as he takes another sip.

 

Loose, Dean is warm and loose and it's so easy, so easy to stop and trace his tongue over the ribbed neck. He's not drunk, not even close but he feels wild, free from his father's electric eye and the light pollution that keeps him from reading the stars. The muscles of his throat work as he swallows, and even Sam must be able to hear it. He rests the flask on his thigh and breathes through his nose.

 

Sam's jacket is too short, too boxy for him and if Dean reached back, just let his hand trail to the right he knows he'd meet a patch of bare skin. That Sam would be warm there if he touched it, that he'd have goosebumps from the hint of chill in the air.

 

Sam leans in, his jaw jutting out as he reaches down. The tips of his fingers brush over Dean's bruise-grip on the top of the flask and slide down. The side of his hand drags over Dean's thigh, his thumb splaying out to V open. Dean's breath comes out in a rush before he can stop it, tingling across his lips.

 

“ _Sam_.”

 

Sam's eyes are always a million different colors but they just look dark as he tugs the flask free. Dean's not even sure if he said it out loud. Maybe he didn't.

 

Sam keeps staring as he purses his lips and closes them over the neck. He blinks his eyes, slowly, before he tilts his head back and takes a shot. Dean watches the slow roll of his throat, the lazy bob of his adam's apple and the way his skin doesn't have a sign of stubble on it.

 

If Dean's moral fiber is flaking away then Sam's is a million times worse for wear, thinner than the hand-me-downs he barely fits into. Sam watches him sometimes, Dean knows. Sam doesn't know anything about girls being easy except for how he sort of does, except for doors carelessly left ajar and bathroom stalls that groan against Dean's back and don't reach all the way to the floor. Sam doesn't know much but Dean grinds his jaw wondering if Sam knows that Dean likes to come with his face pressed into a long, lean neck that smells like his own sweat.

 

Sam's hand splays back over his thigh, pressing down hard and it's the only thing keeping Dean from falling to his knees. Dean is loose and all it takes is Sam's five fingers to make him unravel.

 

Dean closes his eyes, like he could even take it back, like he could pretend he isn't screaming inside for Sam to just, fuck, just what, Dean doesn't even know. Dean's made this face a thousand times but his lips tremble like he's one of Mrs. O'Hanlon's good girls as Sam leans in, like he isn't the worst slut of all.

 

Sam tastes like whiskey and bonfires and all the other things Dean calls home and Dean is on fire. Sam's tongue teases between his lips and his hand digs into Dean's thigh like an anchor, and even the awkward angle of their bodies doesn't stop it from being perfect.

 

Dean is not perfect. Dean is greedy and mean and his hands have a mind of their own, grabbing Sam by the shoulders and sliding off the hood as Sam huffs against him. He slots himself in between Sam's legs, Sam's baggy jeans stretching tight as he opens them, so easy. Dean sucks Sam's lip between his teeth and lets them graze over the worry-bitten skin, pressing his chest against Sam's. Sam whimpers when Dean bites so Dean does it again.

 

Sam shouldn't feel so small beneath him, not when Dean's pressing him to lay back against the hood. Dean's mouth traces over the arched curve of Sam's neck, grating his stubble against it and digging his fingers into the groove of the windshield. He wants to mark Sam up, catch all that baby-smooth skin in his teeth so everyone can know that Sam is just as bad as his brother.

 

Sam's hips rock forward as Dean's teeth drag along the wing of his jaw, and they're both hard as they start to grind together. Sam makes a plaintive noise and Dean finds his mouth again, open and warm and waiting for Dean to take it. They kiss and it's sloppy, half panting and eager sucks of Sam's lips as Dean bears his weight down. He wrestles an arm under Sam's shoulder and hooks his hand over, curling his fingers to pull Sam down as they rut together. The car groans with their weight and Dean traces the tip of his tongue over Sam's teeth.

 

“ _Dean_.” Sam's voice sounds reedy, drawing out the vowels like he doesn't want to let Dean's name go. Dean circles his hips, dragging his hard-on against Sam's as his fingers curl a four-point bruise into Sam's skin. He pulls off of Sam's mouth, sucking hard on his lower lip just to watch it tremble wet and full when he lets go.

 

“Yeah, yeah, Sammy, do it,” Dean mumbles, nosing along the salt-kissed column of Sam's neck. Sam's shaking beneath him, hips rutting up just to curve back against the car before he goes tense. Dean is not perfect and he can't help himself, can't resist the offered expanse of Sam's neck. He closes his teeth over tender skin and Sam screams his name when he comes.

 

Dean pants for breath as that wildness roils inside him, that cresting heat that makes him hump furiously against his brother's oversensitive, lax body. Each thrust of his hips wrings a punched-out noise from Sam's pink, swollen mouth, some of them close to Dean's name, some of them garbled and pleading and so close to desperate it tips Dean over the edge.

 

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean groans, his hips starting to skip their rhythm as Sam's breath ghosts over his chin. “Don't, Sammy,” and there's nothing but Sam now, never will be. “Love you.”

 

Sam clings to him afterwards. They lay on the hood, heads tucked together and their feet lined up on the fender. Even when the unpleasant sensation of his own wet shorts creeps in around the fuzzy edges of Dean's consciousness, he lays on his back and runs his fingers through Sam's stubborn hair. Dean does this when Sam is sleeping sometimes.

 

“We should...” Dean sighs later, more than a little frightened by how wrecked he sounds. How ruined he is.

 

“Let's sleep here.” Sam rubs his cheek against Dean's chest. “We've got sleeping bags, right?”

 

It's so easy to unzip their old bedrolls and slide down together. The ground is soft beneath them and the stars are bright. They strip out of their pants and press tacky skin together, and it's kind of disgusting and kind of wonderful, another secret to bind them together and maybe this one will stick. Sam settles against his side.

 

“Love you, too, Dean.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr post here!](http://saltandbyrnefic.tumblr.com/post/135994755329/burn-out-the-night-burn-out-the-day-burn-out-the)


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